Page 28 of Cloudless
The thrill crashes into a fiery inferno when I find my mother’s name instead.
Isobel
I need you to call Richard.
That’ll be a no from me, thanks.
The last thing I want to do on a Saturday morning is call my dad’s former agent and get an earful of why I’m not doing enough to secure my future in the NHL.
I groan as I throw my traitorous phone onto the other couch and resume my inspection of our ceiling fan.
I really need to dust that thing.
I have an hour before we leave. That’s plenty of time to dust. And maybe vacuum. My eyes rove over the downstairs living room and entryway. Definitely vacuum.
I wonder if we need to do laundry. Who am I kidding? We always need to do laundry.
I hear footsteps coming from the kitchen before Mace says, “Stop moping around and come help me with breakfast.”
“I’m not moping.”
He snorts at my response. His voice fades as he walks back into the kitchen. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say, Cap.”
It’s the smell of bacon calling to my grumbling stomach that pulls me from my spot on the couch and into the kitchen.
I point at Wyatt scrolling on his phone at the kitchen counter. “Why isn’t he being yelled at for not helping?”
Mace’s attention never deviates from the skillet of scrambled eggs in front of him, his apron tied firmly around his waist. “BecauseRangerdid the dishes last night.”
Dax chooses this moment to venture into the kitchen, yawning so hard it looks like his jaw might dislocate. His blond hair is a mess from sleep. “What time do we have to be at therink?” He blinks sleep from his eyes as he settles in his usual seat next to Wyatt.
I raise my voice to be heard over the clacking of me getting the dishes out of the cabinet. “We need to be there by ten-thirty.” I turn to level him with a serious glare. “That doesn’t meanleaveat ten-thirty.”
He gives me a salute and starts scrolling on his phone.
The click of Mace twisting the stove off acts like an EMP with how quickly everyone puts their phones away.
We line up and fill our plates to the point of overflowing. As we settle into our usual seats at the kitchen counter, my phone dings again.
The flash of excitement is dull compared to the one earlier in the living room. My mother’s name flashing on my phone is reminiscent of a fly at a picnic.
Isobel
Richard says he’s emailing over with a few documents for you to look at.
My phone glides like my skates on the ice as I push it away from me on the counter until it balances precariously on the edge, much like my sanity.
I feel the weight of three sets of eyes on the side of my face as I push the rapidly cooling scrambled eggs around on my plate.
Another ding rings throughout the room.
This is going to be a long day.
The calming chill of the rink is missing its usual effectiveness this morning. My fingers drum a melody against the sidewall as the kids do their warmup laps.
Colt bolts out onto the ice with damp hair and lipstick stains on his neck. I roll my eyes as every player in the rink sends him a seething glare for being late.
That kid will never make it in the big leagues. Daddy’s money may get your dick sucked, but it can’t make you likeable.
